


Draw a Line

by orphan_account



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, Musicians, Songwriting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2018-10-31 03:43:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10890987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Then there was the sound of Viktor’s voice when he sang. It was more beautiful. So calming and soothing, making all of Yuuri’s worries ebb away at once, accompanied by the gentle strummings of his guitar as he played it. Not to forget the way his hair would fall across his face in the most gorgeous, mesmerizing way…Between studying for classes and dealing with the prospect that he's living in a country that isn't his own, Yuuri tries a hand at making his possible writing career a success—unknowing that itdoesbecome successful, just not in the way he thought it would.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Before we begin, I would like to point out something about this fic that differentiates from the canon: In this, Yuuri goes to college in New York, not Detroit, so you know that when I say 'New York' it isn't a typo/mistake.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri gets a job and meets his idol.

Yuuri scanned the job listings posted on the bulletin board, half-heartedly listened to the ramblings of his roommate. His roommate, who was going on about how, in between having to do work, study for exams, and actually go to classes, there was little to no time to get a job and earn enough money to have significant financial help.

For the most part, Yuuri continued to read over the papers, a pen in his hand in the case that he would find something interesting. He was less worried about the amount of money earned and more about the hours—he would be happy with whatever amount he earned.

His hours, though...he needed them to fit into his busy schedule, being that college didn’t exactly give people twenty-four hours a day to do whatever they pleased.

No, there had to be consistency.

“Did you have anything specific in mind?” Phichit asked, snapping him out of his deep thinking. Yuuri spun around to face him. “You know, there’s this job offering at this one pizza place... I heard from a few other kids that they pay alright.”

“I don’t want a job at a pizza place,” Yuuri replied, without any real heat in his words. He pressed the point end of the pen to his lips and tapped it there a few times, turning back to the bulletin board and deciding he’d mull it over another minute or two more before he and Phichit would head back to their room. It was unfair to keep him waiting this long.

Phichit stepped forward until they were standing side-to-side. He pressed his lips into a thin line and looked over the job ads, too, though Yuuri knew well enough he had no real interest in them. Yuuri glanced at him, quickly, before tearing his gaze away and proceeding to examine the one he’d been reading over prior.

Finally, he grabbed one about an offering for a bakery, figuring he’d grab at least one and get a better look at it later, and said, “Come on, let’s go. They’ll have better jobs later on.”

They didn’t speak to each other again until they were back in their room. Yuuri closed the door and locked it, remaining loyal to the ‘do not ever trust any other college students’ motto he remembered his older sister drilling into his head a few years ago. Honestly, he would do this on any normal day, anyhow.

Phichit sat down at his work desk, a few of his books already tucked under his arm, and sat down, placing them atop the desk in a neat pile. He pulled the one atop the pile to the side and opened it to a page, saying, “I’m almost completely certain I dried all my finances coming to America for college.”

Yuuri had to agree. Apparently the college head had decided putting two foreign students together in a dorm room was a good idea; was a decision he had no problem with, of course.

Phichit and him had gotten along fast enough, and Phichit was great company. He wasn’t one of those stereotypical ‘party all day’ students, to Yuuri’s relief. They often shared several interests and had intellectual conversations from time to time, too, and it was rather nice.

The United States weren’t too bad. There were people that were nice enough. They would be anywhere, and, in a place like New York City, one would never be bored. It was always exciting...not to mention, rather loud. Crazy. Showy. Unrelenting…

Yuuri didn’t mind staying in the U.S.

However, there were those moments when Yuuri would feel a certain amount of homesickness, when he would miss being back at the onsen with his family in Japan. There were some similarities between the two places, but not enough for his liking; and sleeping on some nights would be difficult, too, because he wasn’t in the comfort and safety of his own bed, at home…

He  _ did  _ go back to Japan during the summers and breaks. They were relieving, to say the least, but the time passed by too fast. The next thing he knew, he would be on the plane returning to the United States, a sense of urgency in his head and a frantic beat in his chest. After, he would be in his dorm room once again and everything would go back to how it was.

He was fine with that.

Maybe.

Sighing, he leaned back against against the room’s door and stared at the paper he had plucked off the job bulletin board, the one job offering at the bakery. He looked down at the phone number for a long moment, thinking. He pulled out his phone and added the number to his contacts so he wouldn’t forget to call later. He had a lot of studying to do. Winter finals were coming up.

Walking across the room, he sat down on his bed and took out one of his own textbooks and cracked it open to the first chapter, figuring it best to start from the beginning.

It wasn’t until his shoulder was being nudged when he had realized he’d fallen asleep, his face buried in the book and drool dribbling out one side of his mouth. He jolted awake, adjusting his glasses and wiping his mouth. Wide-eyed, he turned and looked over at Phichit, who had been the one to wake him up.

“Sorry,” he whispered. It was dark, but Yuuri was able to make out the genuinity of the apology in his expression. “It’s late. I figured I would tell you, because it messes up your neck when you sleep like that.” He tried a smile, and Yuuri returned it; thankful for having someone so kind as a friend, in more ways than one.

“Thanks,” Yuuri told him. Phichit nodded in response and returned to his side of the room. Yuuri put the books to the side and fluffed out the pillow on his own bed. He pulled up his comforter and curled up into a position he deemed comfortable.

With the combined sounds of Phichit’s light breathing and the room’s heater making its low hum, he managed to fall asleep rather easily.

The next morning, he woke up feeling refreshed. He’d known previously that Phichit had an eight a.m. class on Thursdays, so it didn’t surprise him when the bed located across the room was empty.

Getting up, Yuuri pushed the blanket off his body and grabbed a towel. He took a shower first, swearing that he would be more than ready for the day, and once he was out he figured it would be best to go apply for the job at the bakery shop. His first class on Thursdays, opposite of Phichit’s, didn’t start until eleven a.m.

It wasn’t too far from his location and the pay was fine. Not great, but fine. Besides, the hours couldn’t be too bad. The entirety of the job literally just consisted of him putting pre-made pastries and treats in paper bags and handing them off to customers.

He threw on his jacket and a pair of gloves before he headed out the door, closing and locking it to ensure no one would be able to break in. Not that anyone would  _ want  _ to. There weren’t many things in there worth value. Well, there were the textbooks, but nobody would want to steal  _ those. _

He brushed his hair back to make it seem less unruly than it actually was, and went on his way. He stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets as he walked, keeping his head slightly inclined towards the ground. He’d never admit that it was a way to avoid making eye contact with other people.

The walk itself was less than ten minutes, and he was standing in front of the bakery sooner rather than later. He took the paper he had taken out of his one pocket and unfolded it carefully, checking the address, though he knew he was at the right place. He folded the paper back up and returned it to his pocket, patting the spot carefully before he dragged his feet and pushed open the door, entering the bakery.

There had been a small line gathering prior to him entering, so he simply stood behind the last person, a rather thin woman, and eyed the treats in the display case as he waited for the minutes to tick by.

The chocolate lava cake, the cheesecake, the slices of strawberry and cherry pie, the cinnamon rolls and the poppy seed rolls… They all looked so amazing. Yuuri practically salivated at the sight, but ignored the sudden growling deep in his gut, pushing any thoughts of how amazing each of these things would taste aside.

He was here to get a job, not to eat.  _ Either way,  _ he thought, clutching his stomach with one hand and frowning deeply, almost wanting to cry,  _ you’re not supposed to be eating those kinds of things. The point is to  _ lose  _ weight, not gain more.  _ Gaining weight was the last thing he wanted, in fact.

His self chastising distracted him so much that he hadn’t realized how fast the line was moving, and the next thing he knew it was his turn to order. The teenage girl behind the counter smiled cheesily at him and asked him what he would like. Momentarily forgetting his purpose for being here, he once again eyed the display case hungrily.

He shook his head, pulling his jacket up a little to hide his face better. Through the material, he said, quietly, “I was thinking...there was a, uh…” Fumbling, he reached into his pocket and took out the paper, unfolding it and flattening atop the counter in order for the employee to see it. “There’s a job offering? I thought I could apply, but… Uh, if the job’s taken already, I could leave—”

“No, no,” the girl said, laughing and looking down at the paper. She was silent for a moment, but she nodded and said, “The job’s still available. I’ll go get you an application real fast. Be right back.” She disappeared behind a  _ STAFF ONLY  _ door and Yuuri stared after her, blinking.

She came out a moment later, holding a small packet. She placed it down on the counter on top of the paper, pushing it towards him encouragingly. “You can fill it out now, if you want. It’s not a lot of work and the boss is here, so I could give it to him right after you’re done.” She pulled a pen out of her apron and pressed it lightly into Yuuri’s hand. “Here,” she said.

Yuuri spent the next bit of his time filling out the application, occasionally looking at the clock attached to the wall to make sure he still had time to make it to his first class on time.

He didn’t mind having to wait until later; but he was done faster than he thought he would be, and he was walking up to the counter and placed it down in front of the girl he’d been talking to earlier. She quickly flipped through the pages, nodding to herself every so often.

“Alright,” she said. “This is good. Sorry for having taken up so much of your time. I’ll show this to the boss right away.” Paper in hand, she disappeared behind the door a second time. It took her a little longer to come back this time, but when she did she was radiating happiness.

“Congratulations,” she said, shocking Yuuri a bit. She held out a hand for him to shake. “Sorry. He’s busy baking in the back, but he says you have the job.”

Yuuri reluctantly took her hand and she shook it eagerly. “That seems a bit too easy,” he said honestly, and he meant it. He was sure that the process of getting a job was meant to be much harder than that. Whatever happened to the interviews? The back-up interviews? The scary, lingering thought of rejection? (Yuuri had had that last one regardless, considering the fact he had no baking experience.)

The United States  _ was  _ different from Japan.

“To be honest,” she said, “the boss is just happy someone  _ wanted  _ to apply for this job. We’ve had the ad up for months, and you seem responsible.”

“Are you sure I won’t have to do any baking?” he asked, practically ripping his hand away from hers and wiping it on his jacket in spite of having worn gloves. He blushed, knowing she had seen that entire action.

She seemed to be unphased by it, however. “We’re sure,” she said. “We’re glad to have you.”

Yuuri looked back up at the clock. It was still another hour and a half until his first class of the day started, but he needed to get ready and maybe...well, he just knew he needed to get ready.

He smiled, though most of it was blocked out by his jacket. “I’m glad to be here.”

* * *

 

Two weeks into his job at the bakery, and Yuuri was loving every moment of it.

Fortunately, his work schedule was flexible enough to work well with his college and personal schedule, and he didn’t have any problems with his hours. It also gave him a great opportunity to exercise. He would jog to the bakery and work and, when his shift was done, he would job back to his dorms to study for winter exams or go to classes or otherwise.

The people he worked with were nice, too, especially for Americans. He’d always thought people in the States would be rude and self-centered, but these people weren’t like that at all.

They would smile at him widely when he would enter the shop and ask him how he was doing as he was taking off his jacket and putting on his working outfit, an apron and a cap with the bakery’s brand name. The only foreseeable problem he saw with working here was his constant temptation to devour sweet treats, but he had enough motivation not to succumb to old sins.

One particular day, he was jogging to work after his last class of the day, sweat on his brow and a nearly unbearable heat radiating in his body, when he passed by a shop selling televisions. He passed by this shop every day, of course, so it was no new occurrence...until he had heard a familiar voice, a familiar voice that made him shiver in spite of how hot he was.

He froze mid step and backtracked until he was standing in front of the different sized televisions, staring in awe at the figure on the screen.

“Viktor Nikiforov,” the reporter with a fake, cheesy smile was saying to the man Yuuri recognized, voice loud and practiced, “is it true that you’re planning to extend your stay in New York?”

The man being interviewed— _ Viktor Nikiforov,  _ Yuuri thought with a sigh on his lips—nodded and smiled, adjusting the white-and-blue guitar that was strapped across his chest. “Yes,” he said, and the mere sound of his voice caused Yuuri’s heart to skip a beat, “I am planning to stay here and New York. At least, until I find the inspiration to write a new song. You see,” he continued, his smile faltering a bit, “I have been in a rut lately, and I hope being in a place I’m not accustomed to will help me find the inspiration I need to get out of this rut.”

_ God,  _ Yuuri thought, his hands braced on the glass separating him from the televisions and the beautiful man that was on it.  _ I hope he finds the inspiration to write a new song. _

Though, if Yuuri was being honest with himself,  _ Viktor  _ was  _ his  _ inspiration. Everything that Viktor did, from the way he would speak in a voice that was calming and soothing, to being kind to those around him.

Then there was the sound of Viktor’s voice when he sang. It was  _ more  _ beautiful. So calming and soothing, making all of Yuuri’s worries ebb away at once, accompanied by the gentle strummings of his guitar as he played it. Not to forget the way his hair would fall across his face in the most gorgeous, mesmerizing way…

Yuuri shook his head, snapping out of those pleasant thoughts. This wasn’t the time. He needed to go to work. He stared at the screen a moment, a second, an instant, and then he was jogging off, leaving any happy thoughts back there with that televised interview.

When he arrived at the bakery, he immediately got to work, putting his jacket in the back and grabbing his apron to tie around his waist. One of his fellow employees—the girl that had helped him with his application on that day a few weeks ago—watched him, but turned her face away quickly when he finally glanced at her.

“Sorry,” she said, a light blushed dusting her cheeks. She leaned her arms on the surface of the counter and smiled. “You look a little different today,” she told him, in that American accent Yuuri had grown used to. “Like...there’s a skip in your step. You seem brighter.”

Yuuri smiled in return. “Today has been a good day,” he replied, and it was the truth. He would have said more, too, if it wasn’t for a customer coming in and asking for a oatmeal cookie, ending their conversation. Yuuri fixed his cap in order for it to better cover his eyes.

The next hour or two passed with little no no trouble; it wasn’t busy that day, seeing it was a Tuesday and the majority of people were busy with their jobs or education. The rush hour, when everybody would be released for the day and treat themselves to an afternoon delight after all that stress, wouldn’t start until around four p.m.

Yuuri was bagging a sesame seed bagel and handing it off to a customer when the bell on the door rang, indicating that someone had entered the bakery. Yuuri barely glanced up, wiping seeds off his plastic gloves as footsteps approached the counter. A finger was pressed to full lips at the same instant the new customer examined the display case in search of something that would pique their tastes.

“Is there anything you would like?” Yuuri asked in careful practice, lifting his head to meet the new customer’s eyes. When he did, the smile he had plastered on his face fell away, transforming into a surprised frown. Finally, his mouth fell open in a gasp.

_ Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.  _ The customer gave him a smile before returning his attention to the display case.

After a minute or so of looking, he pointed to the strawberry shortcake. “I’d like to have that, please,” he said, and Yuuri’s heart sped up a few miles as he moved to complete this request; he was cut off by his colleague, however, telling him that he would get it.

“H-how are you doing today, sir?” Yuuri attempted to ask casually. It would have come out sounding like such, if not for his voice cracking at the last word. He could feel his cheeks heating up, his fingers curling reflexively and uncurling, curling, uncurling.

“Today has been great, thank you,” the customer—this customer was  _ Viktor Nikiforov,  _ the Viktor Nikiforov, holy crap—replied, brushing a piece of perfect hair behind his ear. “How has your day been going?” he asked.

Yuuri swallowed thickly, one of his hands hovering above the counter. His colleague had placed the slice of strawberry short cake in front of Viktor, and was quickly returning to her previous place to handle another customer that had walked in a second ago.

Yuuri tallied the total in the register. He told Viktor the price and, very gracefully, Viktor reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of American dollars. He took out three singles and handed them to Yuuri, who awkwardly placed them in the register and handed him his change whilst avoiding eye contact.

Viktor took the slice of cake, placed in a napkin, and took a bite. Right there. Standing only a few feet in front of Yuuri. Yuuri, his  _ biggest fan.  _ Yuuri chose not to say this out loud, however, and fixed his gaze on his hands, tapping the glass of the counter in an antsy manner.

“Delicious,” Viktor said once he had finished his bite, his lips curling into an ever larger, more beautiful smile. “Maybe I’ll come back here.”

Yuuri didn’t reply, instead watching as Viktor placed another few singles in the tip jar and proceed to walk out the door, cake still in hand; and, when he was gone, Yuuri took off his hat and started to fan himself with it, because when had it gotten so  _ stuffy  _ in here?

Based on the look his colleague was giving him, he could tell it wasn’t stuffy in there at all. He was losing his mind, really.

* * *

 

When he was finished with his shift and had arrived in his room, he rushed up to Phichit, ever the studier, and placed the palms of his hands onto the work desk, cutting him off from from what he had been reading. Phichit immediately lifted his gaze to meet Yuuri’s.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, probably being able to pick up on Yuuri’s silent horror, to which Yuuri could not be more grateful for. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Yuuri licked his lips, unsure whether he should tell Phichit what happened at the bakery or not. Would Phichit believe it? Even Yuuri had a hard time believing it happened, and  _ he’d  _ been there when it happened.

“Someone showed up at the bakery today…,” Yuuri started, speaking slow as to not trip over his words. “They were... Phichit…” He took a deep breath, collecting the remaining pieces that made up his sanity. At last, he added, “Viktor Nikiforov was at the bakery today.”

Phichit was abnormally silent for the longest time, and at one point Yuuri was scared he didn’t buy it; but then Phichit was pushing out of his chair and, in a swift, skilled moved, grabbed Yuuri by the shoulders and began to shake him violently, making his entire world a gigantic blur.

“That’s  _ amazing,”  _ Phichit told him. Yuuri wasn’t able to see the grin on his face, but somehow knew it was there. It would be uncharacteristic of Phichit to  _ not  _ be grinning, things considered. “Wait.” He stopped shaking Yuuri, thankfully, and paused, his lips pressing together.

“When you say that  _ Viktor Nikiforov  _ showed up at the bakery today,” he said, “do you mean he asked  _ you  _ for his order and  _ you  _ made the transaction for what he got, and  _ you  _ got to tell him the total, and he  _ paid you  _ and—”

“Yes,” Yuuri squeaked, still dizzy. His sight gradually came to him. “That’s exactly what happened.”

Phichit released him. “That’s  _ amazing,”  _ he repeated, this time with more feeling. “Did you ever get the opportunity to ask him for his autograph?” Yuuri hesitated. “Don’t tell me you didn’t get his autograph, Yuuri. All you’ve ever  _ wanted  _ is his autograph.”

Yuuri scratched the back of his head. “Yeah, about that…” He had completely  _ forgotten  _ to ask for an autograph. However, he supposed it was best that he hadn’t. It would have been rude. “I didn’t...have a pen on me,” he finished, lamely.

“That makes sense. Sort of.” Phichit shrugged and patted his shoulder, continuing, “It’d be best not to worry too much about it. I mean, if he’s here he’s going to be here for a while, right? You might be able to find another opportunity later on.”

Yuuri felt tempted to tell him about what he had seen at the television display earlier, about the interview when Viktor said he was planning to stay in New York for a while. Oh, and how Viktor had said  _ “Maybe I’ll come back here,”  _ but figured it would be best not to get Phichit excited on the account that it might have made him excited as well.

Getting excited would lead to nothing but disappointment.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri writes a song and has an unexpected encounter at the park.

Another week passed in quick succession, seven days that consisted of a strange sort of normalcy. Whenever he arrived at the bakery, Yuuri would wrap his apron around his waist and place his hat atop his head and hope that Viktor was lying or at least making a joke about returning.

If that were to happen, well… Yuuri thought about how huge a mess he had been on  _ that  _ day. He didn’t want to wind up repeating the past, for shame that he would wind up being humiliated in front of the most amazing human being on the planet.

Well, that was implying Yuuri  _ hadn't  _ already been made a fool. He wasn't too sure what Viktor had been thinking, seeing Yuuri fumble for words and blush as he pushed the wrong buttons on the register and come close to dropping the change; the very definition of a hot mess.

Yuuri was certain that if one were to look up ‘mess’ in the dictionary,  _ his  _ picture would be there, he was  _ that  _ much of a mess.

That aside, for all he knew, Viktor could have taken the slice of strawberry shortcake and laughed once he was out of Yuuri’s earshot, calling a famous friend of his and saying something along the lines of, “You’ll never guess what happened to me just now. I went to the bakery to get cake, and I saw the most  _ idiotic  _ person there. He would  _ not  _ stop staring at me.”

_ Wait. No, no.  _ Sitting at the work desk in his dorm room, hunched over a book that was worth more than his entire wardrobe, he shook his head. Viktor wasn't that mean, he would never say that about  _ anyone. _ ..but Yuuri could be wrong. Viktor could be a completely different person in real life versus on television.

Whatever the case, Yuuri was finished with studying for today. He felt like he was going to throw up which, in retrospect, was most likely what he was going to do when he was done putting his stuff away.

Phichit wouldn’t be out of his last class of the day for another hour—what, having a three hour Advanced Chemistry lab—so Yuuri settled on lying down in his bed, folding his arms over his chest and lacing his fingers together.

He stared up at the ceiling and, on several occasions, he wondered when his life had gone from living blissfully happy with his family in Japan to meeting his lifelong idol while working a bakery in the United States of America.

Yeah, he  _ definitely  _ hadn't signed up for this while applying to college.

He sat up after a while, deciding it would be best to do something productive. In the next minute, he had a notebook and pen in hand. He was writing, but he didn’t know  _ what  _ he was writing until the door to the room clicked open. He lifted his head, eyes burning from staring at the words he was putting down on paper, as Phichit entered.

“Sorry,” he started, placing the clip of his pen in his notebook’s binding and lowering the notebook down in his lap. He pushed his glass up his face in order to rub the exhaustion out of his eyes, to no avail. He was  _ bushed.  _ “I wasn’t paying attention to the—” He cut off and yawned, throwing a hand over his mouth. “God, I would have unlocked the door.”

Phichit grinned and waved his copy of the room’s key near Yuuri’s face, saying, “It’s alright. I  _ actually  _ brought these today. Maybe your constant nagging is starting to drill itself in my head.” He pocketed the keys, adding, “If I  _ had  _ forgotten them, I would have just knocked loudly. You would have heard.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Yuuri mumbled, mainly to his own self as he pursed his lips and glanced down at his notebook. He wiped the dust off the lenses of his glasses and held it closer to his face in order to read the words better. Phichit had now been trying to look over his shoulder to see it, too.

“What’s that?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” Yuuri said, but as he replied he noticed that, based on the lined verses the words were written in and the rhyme scheme, it was either a short poem or part of a song. Scratch that, he hated writing poetry. It was definitely a song. He frowned.

There may have been the slightest possibility that Viktor’s mention of having writer’s block was getting to him. He unclipped his pen from the binding and eyed the song a few seconds, thinking.

“Did you come up with that just now?” Phichit asked, excitedly. “Wow, that’s pretty good. What’s the inspiration?”

It wasn’t a complete song—a hook, at most. Yuuri didn’t have any music to accompany it. There were too many syllables in certain lines, too. In a case like that the singer of said song would have to rush through the words, and that would make it sound a rap than anything. The lyrics certainly weren’t rap-esque.

However so, Phichit was elated. In a swift movement, he snatched the notebook away from Yuuri and held it up in his arms like it were an offering to a higher being. He was practically shaking. “Has Viktor returned to the bakery yet?” he asked. “You could  _ show this  _ to him.”

Yuuri got to his feet, long enough that he could take his notebook back and cradle it protectively to his chest and take his previous position on his bed. He ignored that fact that the pen he’d used to write the song was a gel pen and would stain his shirt.

“No way,” he said, blushing at the mere  _ idea  _ of doing that. “He...he wouldn’t like it. He has better things to do than take half-assed songs from commoners like me, anyway,” he continued bitterly, hollow inside. “It doesn’t matter. Maybe I could find a way to turn this into my creative writing professor for extra credit.”

Phichit frowned, then shrugged.

“Do what you want, man,” he replied at last, “but I think what you made right there”—he pointed to the notebook, of which Yuuri was currently closing up—“is  _ art.” _

_ It’s his job to say that,  _ Yuuri thought.  _ That’s what friends do. _

A part of him wanted to continue working on the song, though, in spite of his doubts.

The song wasn’t for Viktor, this other part reasoned. He could work on this song simply for him, and then feel satisfied when it was finished. Satisfaction was good.

_ Yeah, sure. _

* * *

 

After a particularly long shift at the bakery—on a Saturday, so he didn’t have to worry about classes or anything, because he didn’t sign up for any Saturday classes—he headed down to the park to work on the song.

It had been over a week since he’d started working on it, tiredly, in his dorm room; and now, as he was reading over what he had written, he cringed and mentally cursed for being stupid enough as to write  _ this.  _ This was idiotic. The lyrics didn’t make sense.

Wanting to work on this was a mistake.

He placed his hand on the top right corner of the page, ready to rip it out, crumple it into a ball and toss it in the trash so he could call it a day and go to his room to study, but he paused. Did he  _ really  _ want to throw it out, forget about it forever? It wasn’t  _ terrible,  _ it just needed a little work was all.

_ No.  _ Suddenly, he mindset floated to wanting to rip the page out again. There was no point in keeping it. He wasn’t going to  _ do  _ anything important with it. This song hook was meaningless and he didn’t know what else to even write for it. This was a shame to his writing capabilities. This was a waste of his studying time, this was, this was, this was…

“Ugh,” he groaned, keeping the page in the notebook and slamming it shut, clipping the pen onto the binding. He placed it down at his side and buried his face in his hands, shaking his head.

Phichit had been correct in regards to one thing; when he had initially started writing the song to begin with, Viktor had been on his mind. And for what? To help him with his writer’s block? That was why  _ songwriters  _ existed.  _ Professional  _ songwriters.

Caught up in his self-hatred session, he almost didn’t notice the murmuring of nearby people.

Almost.

He lifted his face from his hands, glancing over. There was a group of people gathering around something, and they were still murmuring amongst themselves.

After the murmuring there was clapping, starting with one person and spreading like wildfire, and cheering. There came the sound of a voice, floating throughout the park. Yuuri nearly jumped off the bench, forgetting his notebook and making his way over to the crowd.

He tapped the person that was nearest on the shoulder, a young boy, who turned to him with an annoyed expression. “What do you want? I won’t be able to hear him.”

“I’m sorry,” Yuuri said, ashamed. “I wanted...I wanted to know why everyone’s hanging around.”

The boy rolled his eyes and gestured in the direction everyone else in the crowd was facing. The familiar voice rang somehow both heavy and light in Yuuri’s ears, and Yuuri knew the answer before the boy gave it to him.

“Viktor Nikiforov is having a surprise performance here.”

_ Oh.  _ Yuuri caught a breath, momentarily losing his focus. Not paying any attention, he tried to push past a few people, earning a few growls and grunts but barely being able to hear them. All he could hear was the voice that he wanted to get closer and closer to… He knew he was being drawn into a siren’s song but couldn’t find the mind to care about that, either.

He was about to breach the wall of people when he was being pushed backwards, snapping him out of his trance. A person glared at him. “Can you  _ stop  _ doing that?”

Yuuri apologized for the umpteenth time that day, ducking his head and retreating a couple steps. He slapped his forehead.  _ Don’t be such a idiot,  _ he said internally.  _ This isn’t about  _ you.  _ This is about all his fans. It just so happens that they might be a little rude, but that’s okay. They don’t get it from him. _

Eh, they were Americans.

Yuuri stepped out of the crowd, pulling his jacket a little tighter around his body and using his scarf to cover the lower half of his face. He walked off. He’d work on his song some other day. Preferably a day when the biggest inspiration in his life wasn’t in the general area.

Yes, that sounded like a plan.

With a start, he remembered his notebook was still sitting on the park bench. He picked up his pace, breaking off into a run, back to where he’d been sitting because  _ if someone wound up seeing it he would be so embarrassed, holy crap.  _ His heart was in his throat, thinking about how said someone would laugh at him and tell him he was just as stupid as his song was if he thought it was good—

To his horror, his nightmare seemed to be becoming a reality. Sure enough, there was a girl standing at the bench, his notebook in her hands. Yuuri didn’t need to see what page she was on to  _ know  _ it was the one with the song. He wrung his hands together nervously and approached her silently, trying to think of what to say.

_ You shouldn’t be looking at other people’s—No, no, that would be mean. Um, that may or may not be mine? That’s worse.  _ He cringed when the girl lifted her head from the notebook and their gazes caught, locked. Or, at least, he figured she was looking at him. It was hard to tell with the sunglasses she was wearing.

Whoever she was, she wasn’t unattractive. Her wavy red hair was short, not quite down to her shoulders, and her mouth was decorated with pink lipstick. She didn’t quite frown as she stared at Yuuri; but it also wasn’t really a smile. Yuuri couldn’t exactly tell what she was thinking if he couldn’t see her eyes.

She was the first to make a move, lifting the notebook and waving it dramatically. Yuuri could only think to stare at her, perplexed, and she sighed and asked, “Does this belong to you?” in an accent that was so painfully Russian that Yuuri instantly knew that she had to be acquainted with Viktor.

This was bad. Very bad.

It took him some hesitation to fully realize that the girl was waiting for an answer. His face turned red and he fumbled with his words, spitting out incomprehensible phrases until he managed to say words that made sense together. “I...I, uh, yes?” It came out as more of a question than an answer, and he mentally reprimanded himself for not acting composed in front of a person that knew  _ Viktor, what was wrong with him? _

“Hmm.” The girl’s mouth curled into a small smile. Apparently she was pleased with the response. She took a few steps closer to Yuuri and held out the notebook, handing it over to him. Yuuri tucked it under his arm and she spoke again, as if this was a normal occurrence. “I like your song,” she told him. “When Viktor is done here, you should show it to him.”

This was, what, the  _ second  _ person that had suggested Yuuri show the song to Viktor? Yuuri’s stomach twisted. He was going to vomit. Even  _ if  _ this girl did know Viktor and probably had a good grasp on his taste in songs, Yuuri didn’t believe it was a good idea. It...he didn’t want be let down.

A silence fell between the both of them. Mainly, Yuuri had been waiting for her to leave. She didn’t make a move to do so, though, until the faint sound of Viktor’s singing—crap, Yuuri had completely forgotten about the impromptu park concert—crossing her arms over her chest. She raised her brows.

“Of course,” she said, sounding amused, “I could always take you to see him right now. He can take a selfie with you while he’s at it, maybe, sing the song for you.” She rolled a hand in an impatient gesture. “What do you say?”

“O-oh.” Yuuri was lightheaded. Had she just offered him what he thought she had offered him? She was giving him an opportunity to  _ meet  _ and  _ talk to  _ Viktor Nikiforov? Did she know what she was saying? Was she crazy?

Instead of asing any of these questions, Yuuri said, “I...I wouldn’t want to be a bother. I mean…” He pushed his glasses up his nose. “I bet he has better things to do than look at songs from fans.”

The girl snorted. “No, he doesn’t.” As if that cleared things up, she turned on her heels, facing away from him. “Come on,” she said. “He’d love to meet you.”

_ I doubt that,  _ Yuuri mused, but followed after her nonetheless. If this turned out to be some kind of sick joke, he would be okay with that. He would move on from this and everything would be okay. He let out a breath. Yeah. Yeah.

The girl grabbed his arm, pulling him off to the side. They neared a tree, nearly backing into it as they waited for the crowd that had gathered to disperse. When it did, there were only two people left standing in the place they had gathered around.

One of them was standing behind a microphone stand and holding a white-and-blue guitar.

Long, silver hair tied in a neat braid was the last thing Yuuri saw before his body decided to kick into overdrive. He doubled over, about to vomit—until he remembered that he hadn’t eaten much that day, causing him to mostly dry heave. The redheaded girl leaned down to place her hands on his shoulders.

“Nervous?” she guessed, laughing. Yuuri nodded; best to admit defeat now and get it over with. “Don’t worry. I promise he’s nice. The best out of all of us. And he’s going to  _ love  _ your song,” she continued, not pausing. “I mean,  _ I  _ loved it.”

Yuuri had barely finished composing his being when she lifted her hands from his shoulder and stood up, saying, “I never did get your name. What do they call you?”

“Uh...Yuuri.” Yuuri stood up as well and wiped the sweat that had been steadily forming on his forehead.

_ “Yuuri,”  _ the girl repeated. She tilted her head to one side, curious. “I like that name.” She turned away and walked off towards the two figures ahead, muttering under her breath, “I might have heard that name once or twice.”

The next few seconds were a blur, hazy, something out of a dream. Yuuri knew he was following behind the redheaded girl, and he knew his feet were hitting the ground as he walked—left, right, left, right, left—but he couldn’t feel his shoes or the grass beneath them. The two figures, chatting with each other amiably as he approached, were blobs without detail. It felt so unreal Yuuri took off his glasses to wipe the lenses, but when he put them back on nothing was different.

Then Viktor Nikiforov was turning in his direction and looking at  _ him  _ and everything came back to him. Suddenly the world was in full color and he could clearly see that Viktor’s eyes were on him and his heart was beating faster and faster and it was going to pop right out of his chest if it went any faster—

“I know you,” Viktor said, and Yuuri’s knees shook.

“You do?” the girl asked, surprised.

“You...you do?” Yuuri asked, at the exact same time. He glanced over at the person Viktor had been talking to prior, feeling confused when he saw that person was no longer there. He was more out of it than he had initially thought.

Viktor nodded. “Yes, I do,” he said, smiling wide and bright. His fingers itched at one of the top strings of his guitar—oh, God, Yuuri was so close to  _ that guitar  _ that he could touch it if he reached out. His fingers would be able to brush the surface… “I met you at the bakery. You’re the one that gave me the strawberry short cake. I should have you know it was some of the best I’ve ever had.”

Yuuri’s entire face turned a deep shade of red. How… Why would Viktor recall any of that? His grip on the notebook tightened, making the paper inside crinkle unforgivingly. He was speaking without thinking, and he didn’t regret the words until after they had left his mouth.

“I...I don’t, uh, do any of the actual baking. I only put the goods in the display case and give them to customers. And I’ve never....really had anything from the bakery.”

“Why not?” Viktor frowned. “I would assume that employees there get anything they want for free.”

Yuuri shifted from foot to foot. “Not exactly. We get discounts, but we  _ do  _ have to pay,” he said, voice almost a whisper. “Uh, I’m glad you liked the cake,” he rushed out at the end, not wanting to answer the question as to  _ why  _ he didn’t eat anything from the bakery. No, he would keep the details of his...weight problem a secret. Viktor didn’t need to hear about his woes, anyway.

A strand of hair fell in Viktor’s face, which the singer raised a hand to swiftly tucked behind his ear. He smiled. “I haven’t had the chance to go back and order something else, but I promise I will when I do.” He opened his mouth, likely to add on to that, but stopped when his eyes trailed down to the notebook. Yuuri swallowed. “What’s that?”

Yuuri took a deep breath and responded, “It’s...I—”

“He wrote a song, Vitya,” the redheaded girl interjected, and Yuuri gazed at her, befuzzled. He’d almost completely neglected the fact she was there. She placed her hands on her hips. “You should take a look at it.”

Viktor’s eyes widened. “A song? Why didn’t you say so before?” Hesitantly, Yuuri held out the notebook for him to take, which he did, cracking it open and leafing through the pages until he came upon the one with the song. His lips were pursed and his expression was neutral as he read it. Seconds passed, and Yuuri grew more and more uncomfortable.

There was  _ no way  _ this was happening right now. There was no way this was real. One didn’t just  _ meet  _ their lifelong idol, and one didn’t just  _ show a song they wrote  _ to their lifelong idol—and, goodness, Viktor was standing so close to him that Yuuri could practically feel himself drowning in the icy blue of his eyes.

This wasn’t real. This couldn’t be real.

Discreetly, allowing no one else to see, Yuuri lowered his one arm and pinched his other, hoping that he was losing his mind and that he would wake up at any given instant; but he felt the pain. He was awake. This was real.

He was going to pass out.

Viktor laughed, bringing Yuuri out of his dwindling self-confidence. Yuuri met his eyes, scared to see disappointment or shame there. It surprised him when he saw...a different emotion in there instead.

“What’s your inspiration for writing this?” Viktor wanted to know. His teeth showed through his grin. “I think it’s wonderful.”

Yuuri blinked. He hadn’t been expecting  _ that.  _ (In reference to Viktor  _ liking  _ what he had written—although Viktor asking him what his inspiration was would count as a surprise, too.)

Due to this, it took him longer to respond to the inquiry than he would have liked, and he spoke so quietly he could barely hear his own self. “I...uh...well...the theme of it is, uh...platonic love?” He paused at the last part coming out so questioningly. “Yeah,” he said, vying for confidence. “Yeah, platonic love.”

He hoped Viktor didn’t wind up picking up on the hidden meaning of that statement—as in, the platonic love being  _ for  _ Viktor, opposed to simply being a universal theme in the music.

Fortunately, Viktor remained blissfully ignorant. His expression brightened. “Ah.” He exchanged glances with the redheaded girl, who had been standing to the side. Then he directed his attention to Yuuri. “Is songwriting a profession of yours? How often do you write music?”

Yuuri scratched behind his head, a tad overwhelmed by the attention. He had no idea how he managed to make it so far and not because  _ Viktor Nikiforov,  _ but he was proud. He could do this. He wouldn’t mess up. Anymore. “That was the… I don’t really—”  _ Damn it, make words.  _ “Think of me as a one-hit wonder.”  _ No, why would you  _ say  _ that? _

“You’re new to songwriting, is what you’re saying,” the girl chimed, helpfully.

“Y-yes.”

Viktor handed the notebook to Yuuri and adjusted the strap of his guitar, moving it to make the guitar rest on his back rather over his chest. “That certainly isn’t bad for a first attempt,” he said, raising a brow. “However, a solid storyline would be necessary in writing a song. Imagine a world in your head, people in that world. What’s happening to those people? What are they going through? How do things end for them?”

The redheaded girl nodded in agreement. “All things considered, writing a story is like writing a book. There’s an exposition, a climax, an ending...and, of course, everything in between. Maybe you should work on finishing the song, and then you can show it to us?”

Yuuri stared at his sneakers, the sneakers he’d purchased a few months ago. He’d been expecting the criticism, knowing that Viktor was an expert in songwriting and such, but yet it stung to hear.

He felt bile rising in his throat, tears stinging the corners of his eyes. He forced them down and nodded. “Yeah, thank you,” he said. “Thanks for, you know, even  _ bothering  _ to look at it, saying hi to me…”

“I’m glad I was able to talk to you,” Viktor replied nonchalantly; and,  _ damn,  _ if Yuuri wasn’t already red enough as it was… “By the way, I never did get your name. What do they call you?”

“His name is  _ Yuuri,”  _ the girl replied, before Yuuri could say anything. “Isn’t that amazing?”

Viktor looked genuinely surprised for a moment. “Oh?” He smiled at Yuuri. “Well, Yuuri, I’ll make sure to stop by at the bakery and see how you’re doing on that song of yours.” And, with a wink, “Alright?”

“Y-yeah, sure,” Yuuri said shakily. He shook hands with  _ Viktor Nikiforov  _ and said farewell (for  _ now,  _ oh God) to  _ Viktor Nikiforov,  _ and the next thing he knew he had his notebook tucked under his arm as he stood on the sidewalk, waiting for the light to change and signify that he could cross the street. The red hand burned into his skull. He had a headache.

It wasn’t until he was standing in front of the door to his dorm room, digging his keys out of his jacket pocket and inserting them in the lock, a realization dawned upon him.

He’d never gotten Viktor’s autograph. He’d forgotten. A second time.

He groaned.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to talk to me on Tumblr—[@featheredkit](http://featheredkit.tumblr.com)


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